


Make you stay out all night long

by gloss



Category: Captain America
Genre: 1970s, Chromatic Character, M/M, cap/falc forever, groovy, n'awww
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-10
Updated: 2009-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:08:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's apartment is quiet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make you stay out all night long

**Author's Note:**

> For Caia, who came to the rescue. Title from "Love &amp; Happiness", Al Green.

**06-28-07**  
Set after Cap &amp; Falc tangled with Spiderman in #138 (image below), but disregarding Steve's disappearance at the end of that issue.  


Steve's apartment in Yorkville is quiet. Only the bakery down the street is lit up; tomorrow's bread rises in pan after pan through the bright window.

After feeding Redwing some of the food Steve keeps around for him, Sam strips off his jersey. Tongue caught in his teeth, he sets to peeling off Spiderman's web-residue.

Steve pads out of the galley kitchen, feet bare and undershirt tugged out of his waistband. Draining his glass of milk, he sets it down and leans against the wall. "Need some help?"

"Got it covered," Sam mutters and pinches another spot of gunk. He curses when the glob snaps back against his skin. He tries again, using his fingernails to scrape it off, but then he ends up with sticky web stuff all over his fingers. "This is *disgusting*."

"Fascinating abilities, though," Steve says.

Sighing, Sam leans over to work at the webs clinging to his ankles. "Not so fascinating when it's all over you."

"Here --" Steve kneels next to Sam and plucks at the glob nestled on the nape of his neck. He works quietly, his touch light, and before long, Sam's neck and shoulders are clean. Steve sits back on his heels. "There you go."

"Could do it myself."

"I know," Steve says. He grasps his knees and adds, "Sam, about --"

"We're cool," Sam says quickly, flicking at the knot on his calf.

"Look at me?"

"Busy. Gimme a minute." Sam's fingers won't work right. Every spot he tries to clean ends up stickier and messier than before he started.

Steve wants to talk about their quarrel. About their *partnership*. About lots of things, starting with whether Sam will stay the night.

Sam just wants to get clean. The webbing has started to itch, a low fierce burn spreading under his skin, and he scrapes harder.

"Let me." Steve covers Sam's hand with his own. It's a perfect fit, hand in glove. They're the same size. "I can..."

"Dammit." Sam knocks Steve's hand away, but leans back, extending his leg, giving Steve access. "I can --"

"Yes, I know. I know you can," Steve says and his fingers shouldn't be so nimble, not when they're so big. But they *are*, quick and light, stripping away the gunk like they do this every night.

Sam tips his head against the back of the chair. Across the room, Redwing sways on his perch, beak hidden under his wing. Looks like *he's* comfortable. Down for the night, it seems.

When Sam's right leg is clean, Steve cups his calf. He squeezes, just for a moment, then lets his fingers slide down over the ankle and across the top of Sam's foot. Sam grunts softly and shifts, bringing his left leg over.

Steve hums under his breath as he works. Just snatches of a tune, never finished, that sound like something Sam's mother might have listened to. She liked to swish her hips and chirp along to the radio while she cooked, telling them stories about zoot suits and hopheads from her girlhood.

Sam's mother is three years younger than Steve.

And she'd never countenance Sam dating a white lady, let alone her baby boy doing what he's been getting up to with the whitest man of all.

Soon as he can, Sam pulls his leg back and plants both feet flat on the floor as he sits up. "Thanks, bro. Guess I'll --" Be going dies on his tongue.

Steve's head is tilted, his eyes steady, as he reaches to brush his fingers over Sam's chin. "Your face..."

Sam rubs the back of his neck. "Guess you've done this kind of thing a lot. Back in the day. First aid and..."

Nodding, Steve withdraws his hand, but only as far as Sam's knee. Down there, gazing earnestly up, he looks for all the world like he's about to propose.

"First aid and all," Sam finishes lamely.

"We got into many a scrape, it's true." Steve smiles, and his eyes narrow, never leaving Sam's.

Sam shifts, and then again. "You and Bucky."

"Buck was just a boy." Steve's gaze hollows out. "Then again --"

"I'm not Bucky." The phrase has become a hippie-dippy mantra for Sam by now.

"-- so was I." Steve squints at Sam. Fine lines around his eyes, from sun and work, fan out. He should be old now, all wrinkled up and dried out. "So was I."

Kids playing war with real guns: Sam knows how that goes. He sees it every day in his office, at court, and Steve's blue eyes are as guileless as any JD's.

When Steve says the dead kid's name, it's a benediction. Sam cannot imagine inspiring *that* look on anyone's face. He wouldn't *want* to.

"Not now, huh?" Sam clears his throat. His hand finds Steve's; their fingers line up. "All man now."

Steve's smile is bright, and quick, and *lasting*. "Working on that, yes."

"Just follow my lead," Sam says lightly. He's still hoarse, so it comes out sounding scratchy. "Partner."

Down the street, the loaves are coming out of the ovens, golden-dark domes. The pneumatic wheeze of a truck's brakes stirs Redwing slightly.

Steve's mouth is sweet with milk, a little sour with exhaustion, and Sam kisses him deeper.


End file.
